Your semolina skin, a coarse textured piece of bathmat; the tears that will be strewn on it, sordid, unclean affairs; they are tarnished by the feet that have been slapped across your face. You will scream, of course, when it happens. Coarse bellows suggesting a bovine Armageddon. But will they listen, I wonder: I can hear them now. With their subdued laughter seemingly becoming louder, each passing second- the volume comes with the vendetta.

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